


On the Dim Hillside

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Delusions, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Insanity, M/M, Necrophilia, Non-Canonical Character Death, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Túrin accidentally kills Beleg with Anglachel and goes out of his mind once he realises what he's done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Dim Hillside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Please heed the warnings, including those in the tags; this is a very dark fic! 
> 
> For sath, enabler-in-chief. Inspired by [this picture by Nisie](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/image/122635447772). (Warning: blood)

The pain was sudden and swift, waking him instantly, confused, disoriented. A sword was within his reach and Túrin reacted on instinct, seizing it, thrusting upward without thought, only vengeance and desperation in his heart. His enemy cried out inarticulately as the sword stabbed through the throat, and a body reeled down against his struggling form, half over him, blood pouring out. 

There was a gurgling, choking noise, and then silence save for the pattering of the rain, for a moment, and Túrin fought to free himself from the last of the cords that bound him. He stood, shoving the dead body from him, and even as he rose, lightning flashed, and he saw the dead face, Beleg's beloved face, stark white staring upward with eyes that saw nothing. 

Túrin made a sound like some lost hurt beast, an inhuman wail of despair. He dropped to his knees, clasping his arms about the dead figure, not even noticing Gwindor, who, not daring to unveil the Feanorian lamp he held, took a step closer in the darkness and rain, unsure of what was happening. 

Beleg's mouth, bloodstained, was slightly open. He had died with a puzzled look on his face, as if the whole situation was far too confusing for his mind to grasp. It was akin to a look Túrin had often seen on his face whenever he'd asked a question that Beleg couldn't possibly know the answer to - those parted, pouted, lips, that mystified look, almost even that slight shake of the head. "Mortals," he would always say, and then break into a smile. When Túrin was younger, he would ruffle his hair, but in recent times that look usually brought on a kiss, swift but so sweet. 

Almost without further thought, Túrin bent down, taking that last kiss, sealing his mouth over Beleg's, almost as if they were drowning and he was giving Beleg air. Beleg was still warm, and almost seemed to move in his arms then. Túrin could taste the blood seeping into his mouth, and licked it away from Beleg's lips, taking it into and on himself. 

He drew back for a moment, wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, and then bringing the stained sleeve up to Beleg's lips, removing the rest of the blood from his mouth and face, and closing his eyes. The hole in his throat was gaping, obscene, and Túrin could feel his stomach turn at the sight of it. Beleg wore a green cloak and a scarf against the autumn chill, and Túrin turned the scarf to cover the hole in the throat, removing the sight of the blood, the redness of it even in the darkness. 

"Now he could be sleeping only," Túrin mused to himself. "Mayhap it is truth, and all else a dream. He but sleeps." 

"He does not sleep," Gwindor spoke very gently from behind him. Túrin's head whipped around, but he did not move for the sword which lay on the ground where it had fallen. 

Something inside of Túrin's mind seemed to crack, then, and he spoke gently, as if to an errant child. "He but sleeps, see?" And bending down once more, Túrin kissed Beleg's mouth. Not a chaste kiss, not a friendly kiss of courtesy this, but a kiss between lovers, and Túrin fancied he felt Beleg sigh and melt into his arms. "He'll wake soon enough."

Gwindor shook his head. "Túrin - for so I know you must be, Beleg spoke much of you to me - you must come with me now. It is not safe here, and the Orcs will be upon us soon enough. Leave him and come!" And taking Túrin by the shoulder, he made as if to pull him off Beleg, but Túrin threw back his hand, and let out a despairing cry. 

"Nay! You'll not part us!" he said loudly. "I must watch o'er him until he wakes, and leave him I will not. I will fall defending his slumber if I must. If thou art craven, go!" His voice was imperious, all the pride of the prince in him, and Gwindor despaired. 

"I have endured the torments of Angband for near as long as you have been alive, child of Men," Gwindor said, drawing himself up, "and deserve not the name of craven from your lips. And yet we cannot hope to strike down all of that hell-wrought band who would drag you away to the same torment I endured, so come. Leave the dead in peace!" 

But Túrin answered him not, for at that moment it seemed to him that Beleg stirred in his sleep, sighing sweetly against him, and he bent down again, speaking low words of love and warmth against Beleg's lips. Full length he stretched out against him, hips meeting hips, caressing him with longing hands, pressing burning kisses to his lips. Feeling between Beleg's legs he encountered a hardness there, and laughed, low and intimate. "Even in thy sleep thou desirest me," he whispered. "And so do I desire thee." He lifted Beleg's hand and pressed it to his own body.

Gwindor turned away, his hand over his mouth, and walked into the night, but Túrin did not even notice him, busy as he was with parting their clothing and pressing their bodies together. "It will be a sweet awakening for thee, my Beleg," Túrin whispered in his ear, as all around them the storm raged. Under the tree where they lay was some shelter, and though the ground was wet with blood Túrin did not see it, dark against dark leaves, the smell of it mingled with the electric taste of lightning and the wet scent of sodden earth and tree-moult. 

"I wish to have thee inside me once more," Túrin said, his lips caressing the point of Beleg's ear. "It has been too long, too long, my Beleg, since we have been able to indulge so." And for a moment a light flashed in his eyes as sweet memories stirred, remembrances of how they lay together curled in furs, speaking low and quiet with hands on each other's cocks, or how Beleg would take Túrin into his mouth and lovingly bring him off, or how, all too rarely, they would have the time and space for Beleg to push him back into the furs, open him up with tongue and fingers and oil, and then finally press home inside him. How Túrin would gasp at the size of him, the words that Beleg would use to encourage him, sweet endearments right alongside filthy wanton words that would always make Túrin moan eagerly and rut up against him, always ready for more, or turn them both over and ride Beleg until they were both gasping their completion into each other's mouths. 

Swiftly Túrin fumbled for the oil Beleg always kept in his pack as part of his healing kit. Shoving his breeches down, he prepared himself in haste. About them the rain was pattering down, the thunder rumbling overhead. Now and again lightning would split the air, but the storm seemed to be moving further away from them. There was no noise of Orcs in the distance, and Gwindor had disappeared from view. And Beleg was still hard, and to Túrin's mind, still sleeping. 

It was not the first time they had enjoyed this particular act, Beleg waking to find Túrin riding him, and indeed Beleg had often said that in thousands of years he had found no more pleasurable way to wake. Túrin lowered himself down, taking Beleg's cock inside himself, remembering all the times he had awakened Beleg so, if there was a lucky morning when everyone around them had cleared out early, or sometimes when they travelled together. Those times in the forests were their best times, Beleg lying on his back even as he was now, and waking in the dim light of the early summer's dawn to find Túrin atop him, a hand stroking himself, sliding up and down Beleg's cock, so lost in wanton pleasure that he would only notice Beleg's awakening when Beleg would suddenly thrust up into him and then roll him over and take him hard. 

But now Beleg lay still beneath him, eyes closed, limp and lax in all his body save his erection. Túrin, consumed by the feel of Beleg inside him, bent and kissed him again, his hips moving in their well-known rhythm on Beleg's cock. Beleg's mouth tasted of copper, sharp and vivid. His mouth was warm yet, and Túrin's hand against his cheek kept him steady so that Túrin could ravish his mouth as he so loved to do. 

Túrin, still moving on top of Beleg, brought a hand down to his own hard cock, and stroked himself in time with the rhythm of his thrusts. Released, Beleg's head slid down until he was lying with his face turned to the side. There was a unnaturalness in the movement that caught Túrin's attention, but he was too overwhelmed by sensation to consider it long. 

Instead he bent and whispered into Beleg's ear. "Come with me. Have I not satisfied thee fully? Together, together," and the last words were a plea. Seconds later he cried out wordlessly and spilled into his furiously working hand, slumping down over Beleg as he did so. 

His own heart was beating fast, and he laid his head on Beleg's chest, warm and comforting, but there was no answering heartbeat to match his own. 

The knowledge of it - that which could not be denied or suppressed - broke over him like a cold wave, and his hands scrambled for Beleg's shoulders. He shook them fiercely and cried out, "Wake, wake, my Beleg, awaken and speak to me. Awaken now!" but when there was no movement from Beleg, Túrin bent his head back down to Beleg's chest and broke into passionate sobbing. 

That Beleg's cock was still inside him, pressed there to join them both together, was suddenly a source of horror and despair. He realised what he had done, all the shock and the shame of it, but could not bring himself to move, or even to let Beleg slip out of his body. If they were joined let them remain so for all time. 

And suddenly turning, he saw the black sword lying there on the ground beside them, stained with blood, and there was only one thing left to do. 

"Wilt thou take me?" he said to the sword, lifting it from the earth and raising the point of it to his breast. "Wilt thou drink my blood, wilt thou slay me swiftly?" 

It seemed to him then that the sword spoke. "Gladly will I drink thy blood," it said, "that I may forget the blood which thou spilt of thy love and my master. I will slay thee swiftly." 

Túrin said no more, but cast himself upon the sword, and it was broken beneath him, and collapsing down to lie upon Beleg's breast he died, his mouth pressed to Beleg's throat, and Beleg still inside him. 

\-----

Gwindor fled, not looking back, for some time, crashing heedlessly through the bushes as if the very hounds of Sauron followed him. But eventually, he slowed down, and then paused, looking back up at the path he'd followed away from the Orcs, away from Beleg and Túrin. 

With a weary sigh, he turned back again and trudged up the hill once more. He skirted around and came to the Orc-camp, but they had all fled in fear, leaving behind nothing but blackened grass and an acrid smell. Then he retraced the path he and Beleg had taken, carrying Túrin, and so came to the shelter under the tree where they lay hidden. 

In horror and fear, he covered his mouth with his hand, seeing the two dead forms that lay wrapped about each other, so close as to be one, and the broken sword on the ground beside them. And after a long moment, he turned away once more, striding off into the distance, tears flowing down his face, vowing in his heart that never would he speak of this to anyone in all the ages of the world.


End file.
